


Memento

by LadyRoxie



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post Season 3, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:39:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8016118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRoxie/pseuds/LadyRoxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack remembers a birthday while Phryne is away</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento

September 21, 1929  
Dearest Phryne,

As I write this it is evening, I sit at my desk at the station (and before you ask, yes, I have eaten, thanks to Mrs. Collins, who seems to believe I am incapable of fending for myself. I do not believe she labours under her own delusion, but rather someone else's. I blame you.) Spring is in the air, yet I find my thoughts almost constantly elsewhere. 

I would have done anything to come after you. But it seems the criminal element in Melbourne was waiting to see the elegant back of you (and make no mistake, it is that, and more) and with rising labour unrest with the news out of America, it appears I am not free to take even a short leave, let alone an extended one. 

To say I am sorry is somewhat of an understatement. I would, given the chance, fly to you on the strength of my feelings alone. I hope this doesn't offend; I can only say I have become maudlin without your sparkling wit to keep me sharp. 

I hope this finds you safe, well, and not too burdened by the trials and exhaustion of travel, or of your challenging companion. Be careful Miss Fisher, and ask for help when you need it. (I can even now hear your pretty huff, and see your eyes rolling.)

With regards to your last telegram, please resist the urge to “tip your father out of the aircraft”; I don't imagine my credentials carry much weight in Singapore or beyond, and I cannot imagine having to endure what would likely be a long incarceration away from you. Nor can I imagine the accommodations being remotely up to your standards, with decent Champagne being somewhat hard to come by in Asian prisons. Best push on to England.

The Collins' have been (dutifully) kindly having me to dinner several times a week at Wardlow. They seem delightfully pleased with married life, and it is impossible not to be glad for them. Mr. Butler appears happy for their company as well. We all miss you, Phryne. Your little family has become quite the centre of a lot of lives, and your absence is felt keenly.

Perhaps by none more than myself. I imagine each knock at my office door will be immediately followed by a rush of furs and feathers and a breath of French perfume, my breakfast and my desk to be commandeered shortly thereafter. But it is only ever Lewis, the young officer replacing Collins as junior constable, and though he is a fair lad, I'm not at all sure his legs would bear the drape of silk as beautifully as yours.

My own four walls at home turn out to be crashingly dull company over a glass of whiskey at the end of the day. I much prefer your mantle, and I believe it would agree; we have formed a bond these last many months. 

I miss you, rather terribly, it turns out. Forgive me. I am unsure whether it is the hour, the glass of (not very good) whiskey empty beside me as I write, or the lack of you that allows me to be so frank, or so sentimental. If it is in anyway unwelcome, as always, disregard it entirely. 

I find myself hoping, though, that it is perhaps not so unwelcome as that. My thoughts drift continually (and most inconvenient times, a fact which will no doubt delight you) to our farewell at the airfield. Your kiss was something I have long been haunted by in dreams, but the reality was to those pale mirages as a fiery Melbourne sunset is to a foggy day. My arms felt your imprint for days; my lips feel it still. Come home swiftly and safely, my Phryne. (And know that when I say 'mine', I mean only that you are the single holder of my heart, and that your own would be safe and whole with me.)

As I have now completely and utterly revealed myself in a manner bordering on pathetic, I believe I should sign off. But first, I've enclosed a small package in the envelope. 

It was always meant to be yours, and I planned to give it to you today. As it wasn't ready when you departed, it will have to await you at your parents' in England, it seems. I hope it isn't too forward a thing (can anything be more so that what I have already confessed?). 

You mentioned once that you had no photographs of your sister. While I can't go back and cause that to be different, I did what I hope is the next best thing. The daughter of a friend is an accomplished painter and artist. I took the liberty of giving her a copy of Janey's sketch, and of a photograph of you as a girl, which your Aunt Prudence was kind enough to provide. This little image is the result. There is a larger one, framed, awaiting your return. When you left so suddenly, I asked for a small sketch of the piece to be done, and hope it's made its way to you intact. It's no bigger than a photograph, and I trust you can find a frame suitable to take the abuse of travel. 

The Pirate Girls of Collingwood. Bathtub ship, and torn sheet sail; waves rolling and ready to take on the world. 

I think it's beautiful.

Fly safe, Phryne. And then fly home. 

With all my heart, 

J.


End file.
